


Write Me Off

by OpenEndedDoor



Series: Love In Perspective [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Band, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Awkward Flirting, Chicago (City), Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenEndedDoor/pseuds/OpenEndedDoor
Summary: Soul Punk is Chicago’s anonymous, and somehow outrageously popular, music blogger known only by his ridiculous genre fuckery of an online handle. Pete has taken it upon himself to ruthlessly deconstruct Soul Punk’s blog on a regular basis, because he disagrees passionately with almost everything he writes.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Series: Love In Perspective [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016080
Comments: 32
Kudos: 107





	Write Me Off

**Author's Note:**

> I've finally written a Peterick fic, so I guess that means I've fully crossed over into bandom. This is literally my first foray into fanfic ever. Nervous? Me?? Okay, yes, I'm horribly nervous. I hope you like it!
> 
> There's a playlist for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5PUFMJE1McGReQG13Kz6xq?si=akpYRimYTliELzCq7d8tRQ). :)

_..._

_This review has gone on long enough and is getting too ranty even for me, so I’ll wrap it up._

_I’ll just say that taking inspiration from classic bands like Rush and Zeppelin is one thing. Blatantly ripping off of them and trying to pass off a low-caliber version of their work with no original ideas to be found is another thing entirely. Paying tribute to the bands that influenced you is a worthy endeavor when you can balance it with your own talent, but unfortunately Aria Star’s debut is lacking in that area as well, and it ultimately comes across as a derivative mess. Don't bother picking this one up at your local record store. I give it 2 plagiarized School of Rock papers out of 10._

_posted by Soul Punk on Aug 19, 2010_

Pete is on his lunch break, and he’s sitting in his friend Andy's cafe staring at his laptop screen in disbelief. He skims over the last paragraph again. He knew Soul Punk would post today because he knew that Aria Star’s highly anticipated album, described as the retro-future of rock, would be released today. The band has opened for Guns N’ Roses, one of Pete's top 5 desert-island favorite bands. He woke up early just to listen to the album. He knew he would be unhappy with Soul Punk’s review, but a 2 out of 10? The sheer unjustness of it is giving him apoplexy. 

Soul Punk is Chicago’s anonymous, and somehow outrageously popular, music blogger known only by his ridiculous genre fuckery of an online handle. Pete has taken it upon himself to ruthlessly deconstruct Soul Punk’s blog on a regular basis, because he disagrees passionately with almost everything he writes.

Pete leans forward and pulls his laptop closer to him on the table. His fingers are itching, and words are flitting through his head as he tries to arrange them into a scathing rebuttal.

**Comments:**

_Comment #1 by insincerehomeboy_

_on Aug 20, 2010:_

_First of all, it’s not “derivative.” You throw around the word “derivative” in this post, but if you want to get into semantics, all music is derivative. Music is inherently made up of various influences, and it’s impossible to be completely unique as a musician anymore. That’s, like, Music Theory 101. Honestly, I’m appalled that you consider yourself a serious music writer (as opposed to a guy who has way too much time on his hands, so he spends it jerking off his own ego online) when you don’t even know the basics._

_Second, it’s fine to be critical of music. I get that’s kind of the point of this whole venture for you. But this review resorts to outright bashing. It focuses more on Aria Star’s outfits and image, and less on the music itself. Do you even listen to any classic rock, or is nothing good enough for you unless you can put it on one of your bespoke indie mixtapes? You're holding them to ridiculously high standards just because they don’t fit your idea of “good” music, and instead of critically reviewing the album itself, you just wrote a takedown of the band and its members in general. Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not original either. Hating on popular music is one of America’s favorite pastimes._

“Are you arguing with Soul Punk again?” Joe asks. He’s lounging on the other side of the table from Pete, chair tipped back as he stretches his arms above his head. “Because you’re banging on your keyboard so hard I’m worried you’re going to break it.”

Just to spite Joe (and Soul Punk), Pete slams his index finger down onto his mouse button, clicking _Send_ and broadcasting his latest comment for Soul Punk and his loyal following to see. “He’s so fucking frustrating! He thinks everything should be this groundbreaking piece of art, and if it's anything less than that, it gets one of his dumb arbitrary ratings. He doesn't get the raw emotion behind it. He just picks apart the technicalities.”

“He’s a critic. It’s his job to pick apart the technicalities.”

Pete stares at Joe in disbelief. “He’s not a _critic_ ,” he seethes. “It isn’t his _job_. He’s a blogger. A hobbyist. He’s some dude sitting at his computer in his underwear telling people what they should listen to, and the crazy thing is, people listen to him! People base their own opinions on the bullshit he spews.”

Joe looks skeptical. “If people are basing their opinions on what some random dude on the internet says, then they need to reevaluate their lives. I don’t think it’s as serious as you’re making it out to be. I mean, just let the guy have his opinions. It’s like an outlet for him and you’re shitting all over it.”

“He’s shitting all over the bands I like!”

Joe sighs. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because music is subjective. Just because you don’t appreciate something doesn’t mean other people won’t.”

“Yeah, but the inverse of that is that just because you _appreciate_ something doesn’t mean other people _will_. Reviews are subjective too. No one has to agree with this guy, but he’s free to put his opinion out there, and you’re free to disagree with it, publicly and vehemently, which you always do.”

Pete hates it when Joe makes sense.

“You know what I think,” says Joe. “I think you _like_ arguing with him. I think this back-and-forth you two have, this _tête-à-tête_ , if you will, is a form of foreplay.” Joe grins and lets his chair legs slam back down onto the floor, punctuating his point with a loud bang.

“Hey!” Andy yells from the counter. “Stop making loud noises in my coffee shop!”

“ _You’re_ making loud noises!” Joe yells back. “You’re yelling! Stop yelling in your own coffee shop!”

Pete glares at Joe and then, for good measure, he glares at Andy, too. “It’s not foreplay. That’s ridiculous. I have no idea what the guy even looks like, and why would I want to fuck someone who has the exact opposite taste in music as me?”

“I don’t know, man,” Joe says. “I’m just saying, I don’t think you’d devote that much time to someone unless you have at least a passing interest in them, you know, on a carnal level. I think you keep reading because you like the way he writes, and I don’t think you want to admit it.”

Huffing, Pete stands up and begins tucking his laptop into his bag. “I don’t have time for this. You’re just trying to get a rise out of me, and some of us actually have to work, you know.” He walks away, trying very hard not to analyze anything Joe said. He likes the way Soul Punk writes? He’s interested in him on a _carnal_ level? Joe has got to be fucking kidding him.

* * *

Four hours later, Pete is driving away from work, his laptop in its bag resting on the passenger seat of his sedan and his work lanyard resting on top of it. He spent the last hours after his lunch break rushing to get to a ribbon-cutting ceremony to interview city politicians. He likes his job. He likes the controlled chaos of being a reporter and knows that what he does is important in a sense, but maybe he’s a little bit resentful that he doesn’t get to write about the things he loves. Maybe he takes it out on Soul Punk a little bit.

He’s thinking about Soul Punk as he drives to his favorite bar, where he’s going to let off some steam after a long day. Joe’s band is playing, and he’s wondering if Soul Punk will be there. Not that he would know if he was. 

Soul Punk has become something of a local legend, cultivating an air of mystery that’s synonymous with his incendiary opinions on music. Only two things are known about his personal life, and that’s because Soul Punk has allowed them to be known: he identifies as male, and he’s gay. A couple of months ago, Soul Punk came out publicly in the middle of his review of Perfume Genius’s debut album. It was a heartfelt review that mentioned how much he appreciated Mike Hadreas for being open about his sexuality. It was beautiful, if Pete was being honest, and it was one of the few times that Pete both refrained from commenting and agreed with him wholeheartedly.

Soul Punk never discloses which local shows he’s going to attend, but he often posts about them after the fact. There have been nights when Pete has overheard people at the bar saying they wonder if Soul Punk will be there and can’t wait to read what he writes about whichever band is getting ready to play. Tonight, Pete begrudgingly admits to himself that he is one of those people.

A couple of beers in, with Joe and Andy sitting in a booth with him, Pete is no longer thinking about Soul Punk. Instead, he’s enjoying the buzz that’s slowly spreading throughout his extremities and warming his entire body. He’s also casually watching a guy sitting at the bar by himself and thinking about how long it’s been since the last time he got laid. 

He doesn’t usually try to pick up people in bars. He feels like it’s too obvious, not organic enough, but he could make an exception for this guy. He’s almost painfully cute. He’s noticeable, first of all, because he’s wearing a fedora. That’s...an unusual choice of everyday wear and not something Pete would usually go for, but this adorable man makes it work impressively well. Soft, strawberry-blonde hair peeks out from under the hat. The guy’s skin is creamy-smooth, and he’s wearing a cardigan with sleeves that are too long for his arms. He looks shorter than Pete, which is an impressive feat of genetics, because Pete is exceptionally short.

So cute is this guy that Pete lets the liquid courage burning through his blood propel him toward the bar. It’s not until Pete is standing next to him, and the guy is looking at him expectantly, and Pete is staring into his impossible eyes that are somehow blue and green and gold all at once, that he realizes it’s been a very long time since he’s done this and he has no idea what to say. He also realizes, mortified, that it’s possible several minutes have passed and he hasn’t said anything at all but has just been staring at this guy’s eyes and face and general attractiveness.

“Uh,” Fedora says. “Hi.” And then, when Pete still doesn’t say anything, “Can I help you with something?” He gives him a grin that could be friendly but could also be trying to communicate how freaked out he is and that he would very much like Pete to leave.

“So, uh,” Pete says. “Do you come here often?” Pete and Fedora wince simultaneously, and Pete knows he needs to start attempting damage control or he’s going to lose any chance he has with this guy. He decides honesty is the best policy. “I’m sorry. I never do this. I have no idea what I’m doing, and, like, I’m worried that I was being too forward even by just walking over here.”

Fedora gives him a warm smile. “Not too forward, and you’re doing better than you think.” He gestures to the bar stool next to him, and relief floods through Pete as he sits down. “I’m Pete,” he says. He decides that’s probably a good place to start.

“Patrick,” says Fedora. “And no, I don’t come here often. I’m actually here for the band.”

“Oh, yeah? I hear they’re pretty good. Are you a fan?”

“They’re no Fugazi or Quicksand, but they’re pretty good as far as the Chicago hardcore scene goes.”

“That’s good to know. I’ll make sure to tell my friend Joe over there that while not quite Fugazi level, they’re doing pretty well for themselves. He’s their guitarist.” Pete gestures toward Joe, who gives him a quizzical look and then shakes his head.

“You said you didn’t know them! What if I thought they sucked?”

“I did no such thing. I said I heard they were pretty good, which I have, from numerous people, including yourself. I just already knew it. I appreciate your honest opinion, though, and I’m sure Joe will, too.”

Patrick laughs, and for the second time in their brief conversation so far, Pete is flooded with relief.

* * *

A few drinks and an entire set of post-hardcore punk later, Patrick is leaning close to Pete across the table of the booth he was sharing with Joe and Andy earlier. After the band wrapped up their set, Andy took off for the night, citing an early workday the next morning. Joe hung out for a little while before realizing he might be heading into third-wheel territory, and then he left with a wink and a nudge.

Pete and Patrick are talking about music, and the conversation has unsurprisingly steered toward Aria Star’s new album. He’s disappointed to learn that Patrick doesn’t have a high opinion of it, but at least he’s not spouting nearly as much vitriol as Soul Punk.

Right now, Patrick is thinking, and Pete uses the opportunity to take him in: his deep-set eyes, his slightly furrowed brow, his coppery hair sweeping out from beneath his fedora. His hands are almost completely covered by the sleeves of his cardigan, and Pete watches as he brings one up to his mouth. He slowly runs his thumb over his plush pink lips, and Pete is undone. Pete can think of nothing but running his own thumb over those lips, of pressing his own lips to them, of getting them on his dick. 

Thankfully, Patrick doesn’t seem to notice that Pete is preoccupied. He says thoughtfully, “I would be more into the album if there was _something_ original there, but it’s like they’re wearing costumes. It comes across as gimmicky instead of sincere.”

Pete clears his throat and tries to focus on the conversation. “It’s just -- it wasn’t meant to be, like, a blatant copy. They gave those bands credit in the liner notes. You can look at the album as, like, a love letter to their biggest influences. They’re not trying to pass it off as completely original, but they do actually have talent. You just don’t like them because you think they’re cashing in on nostalgia.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t like them. And I’m sorry, but it does actually come across as a blatant copy. You can appreciate a band and still bring some original ideas to the table. So many bands are way too derivative these days as it is, and putting out an album like that is just encouraging that kind of thing.”

Pete opens his mouth to say something and then stops dead in his mouth-tracks. _Derivative._ That word sparks and ignites in his brain, and within seconds he’s feeling the aftershocks as two more words flash behind his eyes: _Soul Punk_. 

It can’t be, though, right? Patrick just has the same opinion as Soul Punk on this one album, and he just happened to use the same word to describe it. That doesn’t mean Patrick actually _is_ Soul Punk. Right? Pete can’t have actually not only been in the same bar at the same time as Soul Punk but also managed to flirt with him disastrously. _Right?_

Patrick is still rambling, his cheeks beautifully flushed, but Pete isn’t paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. Pete’s mind is a garbled series of text on a screen. The image of lovely, sweet Patrick sitting here in front of him is mixing corrosively with all of the things he’s said to Soul Punk, all of the times he told him that his opinion shouldn’t count and he knows nothing about anything. He can’t reconcile the in-the-flesh man with the ugly collection of words on his computer screen. His brain short circuits. He blurts out, “I’m insincerehomeboy.”

Patrick stops mid-sentence. “Wait, what?”

“I… I comment on your blog. Practically every time you post. You hate everything I love.”

And then Patrick does something that Pete is utterly unprepared for. He smiles, wide and dazzling, and says, “Dude! I fucking love you!”

“Um,” says Pete. “Huh?”

“I can’t believe I met you! I’ve wondered who you were for so long, and now you’re sitting right in front of me. This is wild!”

“Um, tell me about it,” Pete says. “I kind of thought you would hate my guts.”

“Why would I hate you? My blog has triple the amount of hits it would have if it weren’t for you! You’re the reason people keep reading. They want to read my posts, sure, but then they want to read your rebuttals. They get both sides of the story that way. They understand the whole picture.”

Pete is stunned. This isn’t the reaction he was expecting. “But,” he frowns. “Wait. Doesn’t it annoy you that I try to discredit everything you say in front of your entire readership?”

“Not at all. If anything, I try to bait you.”

“You _what_?”

“I mean, not, like, all the time.” Patrick looks sheepish. “But sometimes I intentionally try to write things that I know you’ll respond negatively to, even if I’m kind of on your side.”

“So you lie, then.”

“No! For the most part, everything I write is actually how I feel, but I play it up sometimes. I feel like… I know it sounds weird, but I kind of feel like I know you by now. I can predict what you’ll say before you even comment, and so, sometimes I try to play to that, just to keep things interesting for the readers. It encourages actual conversation. If you weren’t there offering an opposing viewpoint then I would just be shouting into an echo chamber.”

“But you have other commenters who disagree with you.”

“Not like you. You’re a good writer, Pete. People read my blog just as much for you as they do for me.”

“That’s… That can’t be true.”

“It _is_ ,” Patrick insists. “Don’t you see how many replies you get?”

“Yeah, but they’re still responding to _you_.”

“They’re responding to both of us, and they’re talking to each other. It’s not just me. It’s not just you. It’s a community.”

Pete can’t comprehend that he has any kind of influence on Patrick’s blog or its _community_ , so he decides to change the subject for a minute. “Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are?”

Patrick shrugs. “I just want it to be about the music, you know? The minute people know the person behind the blog, it takes some of the focus off of the music and puts it on me. I don’t want that. I want to encourage people to think for themselves. I don’t want to actually influence anyone’s opinions. That’s why I like having your comments. They bring conversation into it instead of everyone just blindly following what I say. I like having your perspective, even if it is a bit, uh, pejorative.”

Pete doesn’t know why he says what he says next. All he knows is that his world has been thoroughly rocked. He’s met the man behind Soul Punk, who he thought would hate him mutually. On top of that, the man behind Soul Punk has turned out to be unbearably attractive. He’s been forced to watch Patrick’s mouth move salaciously for the past couple of hours. He _thumbed his lips_ , for Christ’s sake. And maybe Pete disagrees with Soul Punk’s opinions on music, but he definitely does not disagree with the way Patrick’s silky smooth voice seems to be going straight to his groin. So maybe that’s why Pete looks at Patrick meaningfully and says, "My friend says what we do is foreplay."

Patrick raises his eyebrows. "Is it?" He leans forward, looks right into Pete’s eyes, and says low and soft, "Do you want it to be?"

 _Yes_ is all Pete can think. _Yes, yes, yes._ It echoes through him, and his brain won’t cooperate because all of the blood in his body suddenly feels concentrated in his dick. He manages to spit out, breathlessly, “Do you want to get out of here?”

* * *

Okay, maybe Joe was right. Maybe it was all foreplay. It would certainly seem that way, considering how Patrick has Pete pressed up against the door of Pete’s apartment and is kissing him like he’s making up for lost time. Maybe he can’t reconcile Patrick with Soul Punk, but right now _Patrick_ is all that matters. The world shrinks in on itself, and things like blogs and the internet no longer exist in Pete’s mind. All that exists is the slide of Patrick’s lips on his.

Pete is running his hands over Patrick’s body. He lingers on the curve of his back, marveling at it, sliding his fingers down Patrick’s spine. He slips his hands under the hem of Patrick’s shirt and pulls it up and off, feels Patrick shiver as Pete’s hands run up his sides. Pete pulls back to look at him, taking in the light coppery hair scattered across his chest and running his thumbs over his raised pink nipples. He leans down to nip and suck at one of them, and Patrick throws his head back and groans, and it’s a perfect, perfect sound that goes straight to Pete’s cock. 

As if in answer to the urgent need of Pete’s throbbing cock, Patrick reaches his hand down into Pete’s jeans and grips the heated nakedness of it. “Oh,” Pete gasps.

“Is this good?” Patrick asks.

“Yeah,” Pete murmurs. “Fuck yeah.”

And Pete needs more. He wants to spread Patrick out and explore every inch of him. He wants to entice more noises out of him and breathe him in. He wants to fuck him. He’s trembling with the urgency of it. “Need you,” Pete breathes. He looks into Patrick’s impossible eyes. “Bed,” he says, because he doesn’t seem to be capable of putting more than one or two syllables together at a time. Patrick nods, and Pete takes his hand and leads him to his bedroom.

They remove the rest of their clothes on the way, stopping briefly in the hallway to unbuckle and unbutton. By the time Pete is pushing Patrick down onto his bed, they’re both completely undressed, and Pete’s lips are on Patrick’s neck. Patrick cants his hips and wraps his legs around Pete’s waist, grinding his cock against Pete’s. Pete moans into Patrick's neck. He lifts his head to look at him and watches Patrick bite his bottom lip as he grinds against Pete. 

Pete moves down to bite at Patrick’s collarbone. He licks the hair in the middle of his chest and then sucks Patrick’s nipple into his mouth, reveling in the way Patrick moves against him. He gently unwraps Patrick’s legs from around his waist and moves down further to kiss his happy trail and then lick into the crease of his thigh. Every inch of him tastes better than the last.

He sits up on his knees and looks at Patrick, his eyes flicking up and down. Patrick’s chest is flushed a beautiful pink, his legs are stretched wide, and his hard cock is leaking pearls of precome onto his stomach. Pete is in awe. “Look at you,” he says. “Christ, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

Patrick grins. “Look at yourself,” he drawls. His heavy-lidded eyes travel over Pete’s body. He reaches down and strokes his own cock lazily. “You have a lot of tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Pete smiles. “Does that surprise you?”

“Everything about you surprises me,” Patrick says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pete leans down and puts his lips on the head of Patrick’s cock while he's still stroking himself. 

Patrick sighs and murmurs, “Just never thought I’d meet you. Never thought you’d be this -- fuck -- this hot.”

Pete sucks Patrick down slowly, tip to base, reveling in every whimper and moan and shudder that he extracts from Patrick’s body. He breathes Patrick in, tastes the salty tang of his precome, and tugs on his own dick when Patrick moans loudly.

Pete moves up to Patrick’s lips and kisses him. He presses a finger to Patrick’s hole, and Patrick squirms underneath him. “Can I fuck you?” he asks. 

Patrick nods. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Please.” 

Pete reaches into his nightstand for a condom and lube. He slicks up his fingers and slides one inside Patrick, feeling him give and stretch slightly. “Is this okay?”

“Pete,” Patrick gasps. “It’s all okay. Anything you want to do to me is okay. Just -- please.” 

So Pete adds another finger, then another. He hooks them and finds the bead of Patrick’s prostate. Patrick gasps sharply and goes limp, and Pete keeps fingering him, loving the way it feels to unravel him, to have Patrick writhing beneath him. He almost wants to make Patrick come like this, to bring him over the brink with just his fingers, but he also desperately wants to fuck him.

As if reading his mind, Patrick gasps, “I wanna ride you.” 

“Yeah?” Pete breathes. He is very interested in this turn of events. He lets Patrick turn him over and watches as Patrick grabs the condom, rips it open, and slides it over Pete’s aching dick. He slicks Pete up and settles himself over Pete. He makes eye contact, and Pete swears the gold around his pupils is flickering like fire. Patrick doesn’t look away as he pushes down, and Pete’s cock enters the heat of Patrick’s body in one slow, steady motion.

“Jesus Christ,” Pete gasps. “You’re so tight.” He thinks he’s going to die from feeling Patrick tight around him, fully seated on his cock, his hands pressed to the center of Pete’s chest. He desperately wants to hold on to this feeling. Then Patrick begins to move, slowly rocking his hips, and Pete changes his mind. He wants _this_ forever. 

Pete thrusts his hips a little and Patrick gasps, his mouth going slack. He loves that he knows that look on Patrick’s face already, knows exactly what it means. Pete keeps up the movement, thrusting against Patrick’s prostate, and Patrick thrusts back, his dick bouncing with the motion. Pete holds onto his hips and fucks into him, hard. Patrick leans down and kisses Pete’s mouth sloppily then presses his nose into his neck, gasping. 

“Can’t believe,” Pete grunts, “I’m fucking Soul Punk.”

Patrick laughs breathlessly.

“What kind of name is Soul Punk anyway?” Pete asks. “Makes, ungh, no sense.”

“Genre -- _ah_ \-- is meaningless. Do we -- Do we really have to talk about this now?”

“No,” Pete says, and he wraps his arms around Patrick, pressing their chests together and holding him close. “No, I just want to fuck you senseless.”

And Pete does. He fucks up into Patrick until he forgets who he is. Patrick’s blog doesn’t matter anymore. Words don’t matter anymore. All that matters is Patrick’s breath in his ear, his lips on Patrick’s skin, and the heat pooling in his groin.

“Fuck, Patrick,” he says. “Gonna come.” He reaches down and strokes Patrick’s cock, tugging in time with their synchronized thrusting.

Pete’s orgasm crests, and he comes hard and pulsing. Just a flick of Pete’s wrist later, Patrick follows, coating both of their stomachs and chests with his white-hot orgasm. They ride out the aftershocks together, trembling against each other. Pete pulls Patrick closer and kisses his temple, listening to Patrick’s breathing evening out against his neck.

They lie there for a while, Pete softening inside Patrick. He kisses him softly then gets up to dispose of the condom and retrieve a towel to clean themselves off. When he gets back into bed, Patrick puts his arm around his waist and rests his head on his chest.

“Stay the night?” Pete asks.

“Mm-hmm,” Patrick murmurs. “Thanks.”

“You gonna review that performance?”

Patrick lifts his head up slightly to look at Pete. “Which one? The band or the sex?”

Pete gives Patrick a sly grin. “Which one do you think?”

Patrick tucks his head into Pete’s neck and says, muffled, “10 explosive orgasms out of 10.”

* * *

**Comments:**

_Comment #1 by insincerehomeboy_

_on Oct 5, 2010:_

_It’s fine if you want to judge a band on the merits of their previous work, but when they make an effort to change their sound and you still have nothing good to say, then maybe you should examine your bias. How can you berate bands for being unoriginal and then when another band tries to change things up and do something totally out of their wheelhouse, you berate them too? What do you want? Where is the happy medium? I’m genuinely curious to know._

_P.S. I’m getting off work early today. What do you want for dinner? Please not that Thai place again. It’s great, babe, but three times in one week is too much._

**Author's Note:**

> Patrick’s review of the fictional band Aria Star’s debut album is based on the Pitchfork review of Greta Van Fleet’s debut album. The reviewer eviscerates the band for being unoriginal, and Greta Van Fleet fans weren't happy about it.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please feel free to leave feedback and let me know if you enjoyed it.


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